


a spine to dig into, a hand for the holding

by jude_writes



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:09:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20545925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jude_writes/pseuds/jude_writes





	a spine to dig into, a hand for the holding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowersforgraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/gifts).

The bathroom light is on, the shower running, when Connor wakes, needing to piss. It’s early morning, and Da is still snoring in his bed, his beard a tangled thatch of salt and pepper, pistol unloaded on the nightstand, shell casings scattered across a cheap Gideon bible, when Connor wakes, needing to piss. Murphy’s bedding, on the floor beside Connor’s bed, is a twisted mess, but conspicuously absent of Murph. The bathroom light is on, the shower running. 

Any time there’s a chance to shower with anything other than rusting water pipes in a building that’s been on and off scheduled for demolition for the past decade, his brother takes full advantage of that — turns the water nearly hot as it’ll go and stays in until the water runs cold or Connor kicks him out so he can use the fucking toilet. 

“Murph,” he calls in a low voice, unwilling to wake Da. “Murph, open up, I gotta piss.” There’s no response at first, but then the lock clicks. Door still doesn’t open, and the shower’s still running, so Connor slips inside and closes it behind him. 

The mirror’s fogged over and the counter top’s glistening with moisture, the glass door of the shower nearly opaque from steam, and Murph’s standing in front of it. No clothes, holding his boxers crumpled in one hand, a coarse motel towel draped around his shoulders. His hair is rumpled and half dry, and his skin is clean scrubbed pink. 

“Fuck, Murphy.”

Pink lips, pink face, and when Connor’s gaze drifts down, because his brother is goddamn beautiful and Connor is, at his deepest core, fucking queer, pink cock, nestled in a thatch of curls as dark as the hair on his head. 

“Thought you had to piss,” Murph says, mocking. 

So Da’s back. So the motel rooms they can scant afford come with two twin beds. So Da takes the one closest to the door; keeps one pistol on the nightstand and two more in the drawer on top of the cheap gideon bible. So they take turns who gets the other bed and who gets the couch or the floor for the night, and when it’s their turn for the bed, neither Connor nor Murph ever offer to share their bed with the other.

Connor locks the door and says, “Come here and kiss me,” in a near whisper, even though the shower still runs full blast and the bathroom fan is droning, and even if both those things weren’t true, Da’s snoring alone would be enough to drown out how traitorously fast and loud Connor’s heart is pounding.

Murph doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s on Connor in a second, pushing them both around until Connor’s backed against the sink. His hands go to his little brother’s hips automatically; a reflex, like the way they go shoulder to shoulder in bar fights and chest to back when they sleep together, and Connor’s going to have damp all down his front when they’re done with this, Murph still wet from the shower.

It doesn’t make sense that he’s this fucking touch-starved. But Da’s back, and the motel rooms they can hardly afford come with two twin beds, so Da takes the one closest to door — keeps one pistol on the nightstand and two more in the drawer. So they take turns who gets the other bed and who gets the floor for the night, and when it’s their turn for the bed, neither Connor nor Murph ever offer to share. 

When Murph slides a hand under his shirt, strong fingers pressing over the small of his back, Connor shudders at the fucking heavenly contact.

Murph draws back a little and raises an eyebrow. “Want me to stop?”

So fuckin’ sue him, maybe Connor panics a little. He pulls Murph into a bone-crushing hug, not caring if he gets wet, or that water is rolling down Murph’s hair onto his shirt, or that the counter edge is digging into his back uncomfortably. “Christ, no,” he mumbles against Murph’s shoulder. 

Murph laughs at him, but that’s okay, because he’s still holding Connor, and he’s sliding a hand into his hair, just above the nape of his neck, tugging a little, exactly the way Connor loves. 

When Murph pulls away, Connor whines in protest, but that’s swiftly cut off by Murph kissing him. It’s warm and wet and tastes like mint toothpaste and Murph’s morning cigarette and cheap motel shampoo, and Connor whimpers into the hot warmth of Murphy’s mouth, familiar and nostalgia queer already. His brother kisses hungrily, chases after him when he breaks off long enough to drag in a steam filled breath, squeezes his hips so tightly it would hurt, except Connor’s missed that too much to resent it.

“Can I touch you?” Murph breaths against his neck, and huffs a laugh against his neck when the answer is a whine and needy canting of his hips.

It feels fucking juvenile, doing this again — touching each other quick and hot in the bathroom, muffling moans against each other’s skin, too afraid of prying eyes to use teeth and tongue on throat and collarbone. The sickness at the thought of being discovered hanging like sour milk in Connor’s stomach is familiar, too. 

Murph gets Connor off embarrassingly quickly, letting him thrust into his little brother’s hand, cock sliding against Murph’s own, slicked by sweat from how fucking humid the bathroom is. Connor slides his hands over Murph’s skull, over the shaggy hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks, cups his face and thumbs at his plush lips and says ‘fuck’ far too much. He comes with a gasp, all over the flat plane of Murph’s stomach, and Murph follows a second after, with a groan that sounds filthy coming from his little brother’s mouth. 

Da’s knock sets Connor’s heart leaping like a fucking jackhammer and he shoves Murphy away, a shade too forcefully, nearly making him trip on the edge of the dingy bath mat. “Boys? Hurry yer asses up, we’ve places to be.” 

And just like that, it’s over. Connor pulls a wad of toilet paper from the roll and cleans their mingled spend away from Murph’s belly carefully, a hand on his hip to hold him in place, then watches boxers slide up thighs and a t-shirt fall over ribs, just a little too noticeable. Murph kisses him one last time — nearly knocks Connor’s fucking teeth out — and then hurries out, closing the door so swiftly behind him Connor doesn’t even see Da. 

Through the door, he hears, “Connor’s showering, Da. What d’you want for breakfast?”

Connor lets out a shuddering breath. He can still feel the ghost of Murph’s lips on his own, although maybe that’s just the stifling humidity in the bathroom.

By the time he gets into the shower, the water is ice cold. 


End file.
